The Secret Admirer
by Mia Calima
Summary: Sherlock and John are on the trail of a stalker that likes to send the object of their affection stolen goods. Basicly, I'm trying to reinvent The Sign of Four. No slash, just whodunit.
1. Chapter 1

I am not entirely sure of the time line for this story, but I'm thinking it is probably pre-Reichenbach.

It goes without saying that I own neither the Arthur Conan Doyle characters nor the BBC show characters, though I have tried to stay relatively faithful to both.

This is as close to straight up mystery as I can get, and has no, I repeat, No slash. Thank you.

**The Secret Admirer**

**Chapter 1**

"O for the love of Pete! What is that awful reek?"

John Watson, wasn't unused to bad smells, but the fume boiling in a yellow green cloud from the kitchen of the Baker Street flat, would have knocked a warthog on its back. Gagging, he lunged for the window and fumbled it open to drag a breath of, only slightly polluted London air into his lungs.

"Sherlock, what the heck were you combining?"

A figure straight out of some B-rate mad scientist movie, aside from the blue bathrobe, of course, waved its way out of the cloud and threw open the room's other window. The hacking coughs emanating from his flat mate made explanation impossible, so John grabbed a handful of newspaper and worked on fanning the stench out of the flat for a few minutes.

"Well, I think I shall really have to speak to Mrs. Hudson about putting sugar in the sugar bowl." Sherlock's voice was hoarse, and both his eyes and nose were running, as he sagged against the window, obviously trying to get his breath back. John felt his forehead furrow in familiar bewilderment.

"Where else would she put it? Hang on…!"

"She's completely ruined my study of soluble …"

"Sherlock, what have you been putting in the sugar bowl?" John fixed his friend with a stern glance.

"I knew there was no danger; you don't even take sugar." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

"Sherlock, there is a reason why people call things sugar bowls, and salt cellars and the like. It's because they are supposed to hold sugar or salt, not Arsenic, or powdered wax or whatever other gosh awful substance can fit into them. You're not supposed to have to do a chemical analysis on everything before you season your food." John felt his volume go up as Sherlock pulled his goggles off, and mopped at his face with the hem of his bathrobe.

"I see that you are still upset about your dinner with what's-her-name."

"Tina-"

"Though really, I can't see how I can be blamed for you not observing the blatantly obvious difference between salt and wax."

"Wax isn't supposed to be in the salt cellar-"

"Anyway, she was sure to discover your regrettable culinary mediocrity soon enough, and you both ended up enjoying that excellent Indian take away that I recommended. All's well, that ends well" The ridiculous grimace that passed for a grin on Sherlock's face, had "punch me," written into every line, but John resisted. Instead he slapped the newspaper back down and turned to the window.

He was just considering whether the freezing breeze blowing into the flat was better than the lingering smell, when he noticed the woman standing across the street.

It was a busy street, of course, lots of people coming and going, but she was just standing there, head down, with hands in her coat pockets. A smallish woman and bare headed despite the cold and damp. For a second she looked up at the window and John felt his breath catch. Almost immediately he heard Sherlock's voice.

"Oh, it looks like we have a client."

"Please sit Miss Morstan, and tell us about your case?" Sherlock adjusted his jacket before sitting himself, noting the woman's glance at the kitchen and slight grimace of distaste at the lingering odor of his "experiment". He grimaced himself, thinking off the trouble he was going to have preparing the compound again. He spent a second calculating the ratios for his next attempt, while another part of his attention considered where he should stow his nitrates since the sugar bowl was now off limits.

John's quiet throat clearing brought his attention back to the matter at hand.

The client, female. Mid to late twenties. Unmarried. Professional. Works with children. Teacher? No, briefcase says Doctor. Therapist.

"I guess I should tell you that I've been to the police already, and they haven't been able to help me." The woman's voice was low, and just a bit raspy, with a distinctly Welsh accent.

Sherlock had to smile.

"No surprise there."

The interruption rattled her, and she paused to take a deep calming breathe. Uncommonly raw nerves for a therapist, Sherlock considered.

"Perhaps you should start from the beginning." That was John being "sensitive" and stating the obvious. Where the hell else would one start?

Still, Sherlock had to admit, it got her talking again.

"I started receiving the parcels six years ago. Jewelry, some of it pretty nice, shows up every January the sixth."

"Shows up where?" Sherlock interjected.

"Wherever I am." She answered steadily.

"Interesting," He sat back and steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Go on."

"It started with a locket that came in the post. It was nice enough, though more for sentiment than actual value."

"You had it appraised?" He asked.

"No, I took it to the police."

"And what did they have to say about it?"

"Not much, except that it was stolen."

Sherlock nodded. The woman before him was sitting with the kind of casual ease that had to be automatic habit for dealing with her patients, but her hands were clenched together and almost bloodless in her lap.

"Turned out to belong to a woman in Stratford on Avon, who'd had a break in a month before."

"Have all the subsequent gifts been stolen goods?"

"Yes" she reached down for her briefcase, in a kind of spasmodic lunge. "I brought photographs of the items and copies of the police reports if you'd like to look at them."

"Excellent!"

She cast a questioning glance between him and John when he failed to accept the proffered folder. John gave him a Look, and took the papers from her at last.

"Do the parcels come with any notes?" John asked, flipping through the papers in the folder. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on her.

"They didn't at first, but the last four have all had something written with them. They're in the back." She added helpfully.

Sherlock held out his hand. A moment, and one resigned sigh from John later, he was able to take a proper look at the papers.

"Cheap paper, hotel stationery. Written with hotel pens as well. First one's Lancaster. These other two are continental, France, Deauville, I believe and Paris."

He shuffled the papers to find the last one.

"Ah, and London, close by, Pondicherry lodge. All of which the police must have already told you."

He looked up to find her gazing at him with the usual vacant expression that people gave him, when, if they had just bothered to really think, they could have figured it all out for themselves. She blinked and then nodded.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, the police have been investigating. The problem is that, whoever writes the notes, doesn't actually check into any of these hotels. They apparently break in, use the room, then disappear."

He bent back to the papers.

"Novel."

"Wouldn't the security cameras catch him though?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted. "Please, for dump hotels like these, security hardly amounts to more than a webcam and a fat man with a magazine. It would be child's play for our thief."

A pause, while he took a last look at the notes, then he refocused on the client.

"Very well, I think we know sufficient about him, now I suppose we just need to gather what there is about you that has gained his attention." He leaned forward.

"The date is significant obviously, and apparently quite traumatic. Not a death though, or at least not just a death, people talk about death. You're ashamed to talk about this date though…"

"Sherlock …" He barely heard John's voice as he warmed to the deduction.

"…You're more than willing to go to the police; indicating that the guilt is more than probably misplaced, which suggests rape..."

"Sherlock! Shut up!" John's voice was a sharp crack of sound in the suddenly silent room.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi people, sorry for taking so long to update.

I've had to change the rating on this because of the references to some pretty mature content (drugs, rape, violence).

Thanks for reading, and please do review.

Chapter 2

How his flat mate could be so incredibly brilliant and yet a complete idiot at the same time was something that John could never understand. The woman, Miss Morstan, was hunched over herself in the chair as if she'd just been punched in the gut, and John was pretty sure she'd bitten clean into her lip. Anyone could see that she was a hair length away from a breakdown, but what did Sherlock do? ...barrel his deduction right on through of course.

"Pardon my colleague, Miss Morstan…" He let the sentence hang, as no suitable excuse came to mind. "He was dropped on his head a lot as a child." Seemed to fit, but Sherlock's overly literal nature world probably cause an argument.

"Could I get you some tea." He offered instead and the woman in the "client chair" gave a quick choke of a laugh that seemed to unfreeze her. With some effort she straightened and resettled herself in the chair, fingering her lower lip gingerly.

"Yes, tea would be lovely, thank you."

John stood, but hesitated in the doorway.

"Um, you don't take sugar do you...?"

Five minutes and a cuppa later everyone was resettled, with Sherlock perched in his chair, moodily plucking at his violin, and Miss Morstan, or Mary as she insisted, sipping tea from the cleanest cup in the flat. John sighed and sat back down at the table, swiveling his chair so that he could observe the interview.

The action seemed to serve as a signal for Sherlock, and his head snapped up, his eyes locking onto the woman in the opposite chair.

"Very well, Miss Morstan, now that you have been bolstered in the traditional British fashion…" He began, but she lifted a hand and stopped him.

"Mr. Holmes, I am truly impressed with your intellectual and observational abilities. I wish I could deduce half as much from just looking at my clients, it would be amazingly helpful." The smile she gave was small, but genuine, and she squared her shoulders to continue.

"But this is a very painful subject for me, so I think that I would rather tell it in my own way."

John shot a glance over to gauge Sherlock's reaction. He had the barely contained, quivering energy that John recognized from numerous cases, a bit like a Spaniel he'd had as a kid, right before it set after his mother's cat. At least his self control was a little better; John considered as Sherlock deliberately sat back and shut his eyes, making a gesture for Mary to continue.

"Tell away, Miss Morstan." The mocking tone in Sherlock's voice made John wince, but the woman, Mary, didn't take any notice of it. John couldn't help but admire her pluck, she'd had a pretty serious shock just a moment ago, but she looked quite calm and collected now. She was a pretty woman in her own way, with more of the Welsh Celt in her features than the Anglo Saxon, and a very neat figure. She wore a basic brown business suit, and had her hair back in a knot that rather reminded him of the female officers he'd worked with during his service.

"I know that your time is valuable, but I think you should have some background." She paused to take sip from her cup, and then put it down with an air of finality.

"I have very little family, just my Dad who works for the Office of the Inspector General, and an elderly aunt. My mother left us when I was two, and I've had no contact with her since." As far as John could tell, this loss did not seem to weigh very heavily on her.

"My Dad travels a lot for his job, and his sister, my aunt, is in her seventies." She paused to take a breath and John saw her glance at Sherlock who hadn't stirred since she began.

"Anyway, so as soon as I was old enough, I was bundled off to boarding school. St Brigids, which is actually a very nice school in North Wales, and I got on well there."

"I trust that you won't have to recount your entire school history?" Sherlock flashed an impatient glance at the client, which she ignored and soldiered forward.

"It is a good school, but into my teens I hit a bit of a rough patch. I fell in with what you might call "the bad crowd"." She shrugged and smiled faintly.

"Mostly just kids experimenting. We thought we were cool and 'bad' when we smoked a little pot." She laughed and then sobered.

"Still, it didn't go unnoticed by the house mum, who told my Dad. It was just before summer holiday, so the school sent me home with a warning to 'rehabilitate' myself before coming back."

"And how old were you then?" John wondered.

"Seventeen."

"Ah, I'm sure that went over well with your Dad." John snorted.

Her reply was accompanied by a wry smile.

"Oh, we had a famous row. Shouting, tears, the whole works. In the end I shoved some things in a bag and ran out of the house."

John noticed that the smile was gone and her face had gone pale again.

"I had some friends that I planned to go to, but they turned out to be away, so I phoned up another friend who told me she knew some friends of her brother who wouldn't mind me staying." She swallowed. "By that time I'd spent one night on the street and wasn't to keen to repeat the experience, so I used the last of my money to get a bus to Conwy where my friend had said these fellows had a house. Kind of a hostel actually."

John didn't like where this was going, but kept quiet.

"The guys, Fred and Kurt, were complete junkies. I doubt they could see straight half the time, and the house was…a sty." She wrinkled her nose at the memory.

"Couldn't have got much business then." John guessed, but Sherlock contradicted him.

"Oh no John, that's the beauty of it. A house like that would be the perfect place for all kinds of people to be attracted to, people who care far more about not being noticed than clean beds."

"You are right, there were several other people in the place when I got there. They claimed to be backpackers and tourists, but they never did any sightseeing that I could tell."

Mary's voice was even lower than it had been to start with, and her eyes stayed on her hands in her lap.

"I am a stubborn person Mr. Holmes, and my temper was hot in those days, but it didn't take me long to figure out that I wanted to go back home. Trouble was that I was out of money." Her hands clenched in her lap. "Of course, now it seems perfectly clear that I should have called somebody, my Dad especially, but at the time I didn't think I could."

"There was one couple in the house who said that they were from Romania. The woman spoke a little English, and some how being the only two females in the place got us to talking, till I had told her my entire life story such as it was." She gave a little shrug. "I thought she was being nice when she offered for her husband and her to drive me back to Denbigh on their way to Scotland."

"But you never got home, not with them." Sherlock interrupted, his gaze intense on her face. "Where did you end up?"

"I don't know, or at least, I didn't at the time." She corrected herself. John watching with concern, noting that she looked a bit sick and her breathing was far too fast and shallow. He considered that he might need a paper bag, if she didn't calm down soon. As if on cue, she took a deliberately deep breath.

"I woke up in a room with bars on one tiny window, and one locked door. And then I realized the true meaning of hell on earth."

John couldn't quite contain the urge to swear, and he noticed that even Sherlock looked slightly subdued. Mary Morstan continued her narrative, with a grim kind of determination.

"I spent two and a half weeks in that room, except for twice a day, when I was allowed to go down the hall to the W.C. I remember that hall seeming so short, but it had half a dozen doors on each side, so it had to be pretty long. The doors were how I figured out there were other girls there." She winced. "It was hard to guess since only a few of us were let out at any one time, but I think all the rooms on that hall were occupied."

John was confused.

"Who kidnaps more than a dozen girls? Why?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"These are business people John, not just kidnappers; dealing in the most lucrative stock: sex."

John cast a glance at Mary, who gave sharp little bob of the head to indicate agreement.

"You said that you spent only a few weeks imprisoned. How did your freedom come?" Sherlock asked.

John was watching Mary Morstan's face closely and so noticed the slight flaring of her nostrils and fire that seemed to come into her eyes.

"There are men, Mr. Holmes, who like to see fear. They feel powerful when they terrify someone…" She cleared her throat and resumed.

"There was a man who came to me a few times. He didn't speak much English, but he would bring things with him to scare me. Spiders, knives…the last time, he brought a gun."

John saw Sherlock's eyebrows go up, and knew his own face showed similar surprise.

"How did you get the gun from him Miss Morstan?" Sherlock asked with more respect than he had shown throughout the whole interview.

"He held it to my head while he was on top, but he ..er." She looked down and around uncomfortably. "…stopped paying attention, and that's when I grabbed it from him and put it to his forehead." She paused, with fierce look in her eyes that subsided gradually.

"I didn't really know what to do, but I had to get out of there. So I kept the gun on him and made him call to get the door open, then I walked him out of there. Which is when I realized that I was still in the UK because all the advertisements were in English."

"Where?" Sherlock broke in.

"Bristol, actually, though I didn't know it yet."

Sherlock made a gesture for her to go on.

"I had him get in his car and drive around until we found a police car. Then I shot him in the foot, and emptied the rest of the clip into the dashboard."

John choked, caught between the sheer absurdity of the image in his mind, and the seriousness of the situation. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"I expect that got the attention you were looking for."

Mary snorted.

"I looked completely mad. Waving a gun around, with hardly any clothes on. Shooting up a car, and a naked man beside me." She made a sound that was between a choke and a giggle. "There were about five cars, an ambulance, and SWAT team there in ten minutes."

Sherlock nodded appreciatively.

"What about the brothel, where you able to get the police back to that?"

Mary sobered instantly.

"The police had to sedate me, so I was out for an hour or two before I could give a rational report. Everything I said before that was just raving. I managed to give them a close enough idea of where it was for them to find it, an old Spa on the edge of town. But it was already burning by the time they got there."


	3. Chapter 3

Note: I have pretty much decided that this part of the story takes place in the six week interval between Jim Moriarty being arrested for attempting to steal the Crown Jewels, and his trial.

Chapter 3

"Burning?" John repeated, horrified.

"Yes, the kidnappers were gone and the building in flames when the police got there." For the first time since she began her story Mary Morstan's voice broke, and she swiped a hand across her eyes before continuing.

"They found the remains of seven girls, though they couldn't say for sure if it they were all killed in the fire." She took a deep breathe. "You asked me, Mr. Holmes what the significance of the date, January the sixth is, well, ten years ago that was the day of that fire."

A horrible silence reigned for several moments. John could think of nothing to say that wouldn't sound completely trite and meaningless, so he said nothing. Sherlock meanwhile looked merely thoughtful.

"What became of the other girls and the kidnappers." He asked, leaning back again.

"No telling, they disappeared." Mary Morstan answered, her face showing frustration.

Sherlock sat up as if electrocuted.

"Say that again." He ordered.

"They all disappeared, the police never found any of them." She repeated, her eyes narrowing in confusion. John gave Sherlock a similar look, but he wasn't paying attention, he was up striding around the room. His thin frame radiating barely contained energy.

"The naked man, the one with the gun, who was he?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, his name was Coolie Sépoy," She answered, giving John a questioning look. His could only respond with a shrug.

"But he had to be extradited for trial, I think Interpol was mixed up with it some how."

"How convenient." Sherlock murmured.

"He's in prison, I do know that." Mary added, her face showing a measure of the discomfort John was feeling. "It's not as if the police didn't make an effort. They spent at least a week searching through the ashes of the building, not to mention the months of investigating."

"Excellent." Sherlock crowed. " And what did they say they were searching for?"

"Clues, evidence…what else would they be searching for?" Mary asked, frowning. John decided to jump in as well.

"Sherlock, if you've got a theory just tell us. Otherwise," John added. "It seems like we are getting a bit off the point of the notes, and Mary here's, case."

"Yes, the notes." Sherlock echoed, pausing by the window, which was still slightly open and pouring in a freezing draft. He didn't seem to notice.

"Interesting that they should start out six years ago."

"Could be a stalker," John suggested. "Some sick sod found out about your history, and decided to send consolation presents on the anniversary…" He shrugged, feeling an absurd rush of heat to his face, as Mary turned her full attention on him for a moment. Sherlock's voice at it's most cutting, broke the moment, and turned both their attention back to him.

"Lovely deduction John." He said, pulling his phone out. "A world class thief, crisscrosses Europe to send second rate jewelry to an ex-prostitute, on the day of her escape…"

"Sherlock!" John shouted, turning angrily to his flat mate, who gave him a baffled look. John didn't have time to pay attention to him though, as he attempted to make his apologies to Mary.

"I am sorry, so sorry." He watched helplessly as grabbed her case and her coat, and started for the door. She shook her head, face white and pinched with emotion.

"I don't care, what you think of me Mr. Holmes." She said, pausing at the door. "But I was never a prostitute, and neither were any of the girls in that building, and if you can't respect that, then I don't care how clever a person you are, I don't want you handling my case." She whirled, and disappeared down the steps. A resounding bang from the front door let them know that she'd gone.

John shook his head and took a deep breath.

"Just so I know, Sherlock; where you dropped on your head often when you were a kid?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Well, what else do you call someone who works in a brothel?"

John stepped to the window and looked out. Below he could still see Mary Morstan hurrying along the walk toward the Tube station.

"It's not the same." John glanced back at his friend. That was the problem really, he thought, taking in the incomprehension and irritation on the other's face. It was impossible for John to stay really mad at him about these things, because Sherlock really didn't, couldn't, get it. He shook his head and moved to grab his coat.

"Where are you going?" The question had a tinge of surprise in it.

"I'm going to try to catch up with her. See if I can take care of this mess you've made."

A second later he was out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

John didn't wait to hear what reply Sherlock might make, as he hurried down the stairs and out onto the street. The cold and damp of the late January afternoon reminded him, why he'd been intending to spend the evening in. The wind seemed to be pouring directly down his collar, while his ears and nose immediately froze on contact with the outer air. He hunched his shoulders and headed as fast as he could toward the nearest Tube line.

He spotted her at the Underground entrance, in a queue, waiting to swipe her oyster card. Ignoring the looks and mutters he managed to maneuver his way forward.

"Mary wait!"

She looked back just as she was set to swipe her card, and noticed him.

"John…what are you..?" The card hovered over the scanning machine, momentarily forgotten.

"Look, I just wanted to apologize for that whole thing back at the flat." He spoke hurriedly, conscious of the growing hostility behind him.

"Please, would you mind giving me a second?"

She followed his gaze up the line, and suddenly seemed to notice that she was holding things up. For half a second more, he could tell that she was debating with herself, probably thinking about going on and ignoring him. Instead she stepped out of the queue, grimacing slightly at the smattering of applause and mutters that accompanied the action.

"Look John…" she began, but had to pause as another herd of people pushed past and an announcement rang out over the PA system.

John pointed at the exit and she nodded.

Outside, the sky was the color of wet slate, and a steady drizzle of icy liquid rained down.

"You don't have to apologize John," She began again through her chattering teeth. John cut her off.

"Look, let me buy you a pint and we'll discuss this somewhere where we're not freezing to death."

Again, he could see the indecision, and a tension of, he guessed, fear under that. But she took a deep breathe and nodded finally.

The warmth of the pub was going a long way to returning feeling to her poor hands when John brought their drinks back to the table. Mary eagerly grasped the warm ceramic mug of mulled wine she'd opted for, and hugged it close, savoring the scent.

She noticed John smiling slightly as he took a tentative sip from his own mug.

"Mmmh." He admitted, nodding in appreciation. She smiled as well.

"You see, perfect for the weather."

"Ta." He took another sip, and then just held it between his hands. "A little sweet, but very warming."

She took a sip of her own drink and observed the man opposite. He seemed different out of context with his friend, taller somehow. Of course someone as tall as Sherlock Holmes must make everyone short by comparison. She knew she'd felt positively miniscule. Still, that wasn't the whole explanation. She suddenly realized she was staring and hastily looked away.

"I haven't been in a pub in ages" Not the best conversation start, but she was nervous. "All we have are take-aways, and fish and chip stands by the office."

"Yes, well, the Coventry's an old favorite of mine." John's smile was somehow reassuring. "Good place to unwind of a day."

"I can see where you'd need that." She realized too late how bitter that sounded and hastened to apologize. He stopped her with an upraised hand.

"No, no, it's all right." He gave a short chuckle. "He can be a bit of a trial. Which is why I try to warn people on the blog."

"You blog?" Mary asked with interest. He hadn't struck her as the blogger type, what with the cozy, old fashioned flat, and his almost formal manner. He was giving her a look now though that suggested her instincts were very off base.

"You haven't read my blog?" He grimaced and shook his head. "Sorry, no. I just mean that it's been in the papers, and most of our clients come from reading the blog."

"Oh." Mary felt her face and neck heat up. "I, uh," She cleared her throat and started again. " I don't pay attention to much news, or really anything outside my work and animals." She admitted, fully realizing how pathetic it sounded.

John's face furrowed into confused frown.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but how did you find out about us then?"

Mary didn't mind answering that at all, especially since it wouldn't be drawing anymore attention to her media deficits.

"My friend, well colleague really, Cecil Forrester suggested that I consult Mr. Holmes. Apparently he helped her with some little matter a while ago," She shrugged. "Since the police haven't got anywhere with the case, we both thought it wouldn't hurt to get a second opinion."

John shifted in his chair.

"Forrester." He repeated, apparently trying to place the name. "I'm guessing it's from before my time. I've only been working with Sherlock a couple years." He focused on her again.

"I hope that you will still let us give you that second opinion though." He hurried on before she could respond. "Sherlock's an arrogant sod, and has no tact whatsoever, but there's none better as far as detective work."

Mary sat back in and took another swallow of wine as she considered. Now that she'd had a little time, she was having a hard time holding on to the anger, and was actually feeling a bit silly about storming out of the flat. With a sigh she reached down for her case.

"It's the dratted Cymru temper." She tried for a laugh, which came out a bit weak. "I suppose it was childish to fly of the handle like that."

"No," John shook his head. "No, it was completely deserved, and believe me, it's not the worst reaction he's inspired. There've been days where I've had to dash out, just to keep from strangling him myself."

This time her laugh was a bit stronger.

"Well, he can't be that bad all the time or you wouldn't be such friends." And they were friends, she thought. Only good friends could be that annoyed with each other and still hang around.

John pulled a face, and waggled a hand in an equivocating gesture, but then grew a little more serious.

"He's a good mate."

That hung in the air for a moment, before she nodded.

"That's worth something." She took a deep breath and snapped open her case.

"There's just one more thing that I didn't get a chance to show back at Baker Street." She pulled the smallish parcel that had been on her doorstep the previous evening, out of the case and handed it over to John Watson.

"It's the latest." She said as he took it and carefully looked it over.

"I thought that you took all of them to the police?" He asked. She watched fascinated as he lifted the parcel to inexplicably sniff the wrappings.

"Um… well, yes, usually I do, but Cecil thought it would be best if I let Mr. Holmes look at it first."

"It certainly couldn't hurt." He lifted his eyes from the package back to her face. "Does this mean we're back on the case?"

She shrugged and looked away toward the brisk business at the bar, considering her answer.

"I tired of living looking over my shoulder John. I've moved four times in the last six years, and considered changing my name just to see if it could get them to leave me alone." She turned back. "If Sherlock Holmes can find who's been sending these parcels and get them to stop, I'm willing to live with the annoyance of his behavior." She smiled at John serious face.

"Yes, you're back on the case."

Note: This chapter was awkward for me because I'm not very good at romance. However, in the Sign of Four there is a very obvious instant chemistry between Watson and Mary Morstan, so I had to at least allude to the fact that there is some attraction there. Let me know what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

John Watson was irritated, but not particularly surprised to find the Baker Street flat vacant and dark when he returned after seeing Mary Morstan into a cab for her journey home. Sherlock's habits at the best of times were irregular to the extreme.

"You could at least have shut the window." He muttered to himself, as he stepped across and did just that, abruptly cutting off the icy draft. The air in the rooms was nearly as cold as outside, and John was just going to turn up the gas, and contemplating putting the kettle on, when his phone chimed.

A message from Sherlock. Text, of course.

"_Bring the parcel to St. Barts. I'll meet you there_."

John just stood looking at his phone for a moment, shaking his head.

"So much for the evening in." He finally sighed, and turned grimly back to the door.

* * *

><p>"This is ridiculous; you've got to stop following me around." John announced as he strode through the doors of St. Bartholomew's pathology lab. He was wet and cold and it didn't help his mood to realize that he'd somehow missed spotting his gangly friend's shadowing him while he'd talked with Mary Morstan.<p>

Sherlock, seated in front of his usual microscope, didn't seem to register his presence, though John knew better.

"Seriously, Sherlock, it's embarrassing." He slapped the parcel on the work bench next to his friend's hand. Sherlock looked over at it immediately, carefully moving from the microscope to study it. His voice though held an almost bored tone as he addressed John.

"Actually, the frequency which you get yourself kidnapped is more embarrassing to my mind. Following you is no more than a reasonable precaution."

"Yes, well, anytime you want to speak to Mycroft about that, be my guest." John perched himself on one of the stools a little distance from Sherlock and tried to rub some of the moisture out of his hair.

"She's willing to forgive you by the way."

Sherlock, in the midst of examining the address on the parcel with his pocket magnifier, looked up, puzzled.

"Who?"

"Mary Morstan," John supplied. "Our client. The one you insulted by calling a whore."

Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the subject. "I'm not going to get involved with semantics. I solve mysteries; if clients want therapy they can go else where."

John took a deep breath and reminded himself that this was just Sherlock before nodding.

"Fine. But just keep all comments on her history to a minimum, if you don't mind."

"No problem." By his tone, John could tell that Sherlock was only partly paying attention to the conversation. "I'm planning on having very little to do with her really, after all the fair sex is more your department, John."

"Hang on…" John protested, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Speaking of which, what do you make of this?'

He was holding up a piece of jewelry, carefully draped over a pen. John got up and moved closer.

"Looks like a bracelet." He examined the metal chain, and the variety of little ornaments hanging from it. "One of those charm jobs, but pretty posh. I think the chain at least is real silver."

"It is." Sherlock confirmed. "As are three of these." One long finger indicated three of the dangling charms.

"Whoever, had it must like pearls." John observed. "Just about all of these have a pearl on them somewhere." He looked closely at one of the charms, a little silver horse with a pink faux pearl embedded in its abdomen.

"It's her birthstone." Sherlock declared with his usual certainty.

"You mean the person who this bracelet belongs to." John clarified.

"Of course." Sherlock had another pen now and was lifting the moving the piece, peering at it closely as if looking for something.

"This is a gift to her from someone she's close to, someone she has loved for a long time but she doesn't get on with now. Family probably…ah." He stopped lifting the chain around, and focused on one charm; a little gilt heart with a tiny seed pearl stuck into it. Scratched into the charm was a date and set of initials.

"1973, T.R.S to C. M. S" John read out loud. "You don't suppose it could be a gift to a wife, or something like that."

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "See here, it was sized up. She got this when she was young, probably early teens, though there is some margin for error." He pursed his lips. "It has to be from a brother or sister, and not a friend because they have the same last names, plus this charm only just came out last year at Harrods." He pointed out a silver and mother of pearl shell with a real freshwater pearl, nestled inside. "So this person has been giving her birthday charms for around thirty years."

"They must have missed some birthdays; there are only around sixteen charms on the bracelet." John pointed out.

"He didn't miss them, she took them off." Sherlock corrected. "Something happened that made her angry and she tore them off. There are very obvious signs." He added, forestalling John question.

"Now there are only very old, cheap charms and very new expensive charms, which leads us to suspect that whatever happened was in a ten year or thereabouts period that she wants to forget, but she doesn't want to forget the happy times of her youth, and believes that her future is more hopeful." Sherlock dropped the charm bracelet into a plastic bag, and then onto the counter, apparently satisfied to have learned everything important from it. John took the bag, and continued to study it.

"Now I suppose that we just have to find out who T.R.S and C.M. S are."

"Who they are is less important than why our stalker considered it important for Miss Morstan to have the bracelet." Sherlock clarified.

"You don't think they sent it just because they thought that she'd fancy it?" John asked.

"You mean embrace the theory that this is someone acting on a sick obsession, and thinking that by sending her jewelry, they will somehow impress her." Sherlock sneered as he scraped at the interior of the padded envelope with a scalpel, dislodging bits of dust, and paper fragments, which in turn fell into a small Petri dish.

"Stranger things have happened." John insisted stoutly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Take a look at the jewelry, John. I mean, really look." He nodded to a back counter where the bundle of case files and police reports lay in a crumpled heap. John picked them up; noting the curled edges from Sherlock's rolling the papers up to stuff into his pocket, and the slight damp, where the tops had stuck out past the pocket.

"Where were you, by the way, when I was talking to Mary?" He asked trying to smooth out the first photograph so that he could examine it.

"Hiding in plain sight, John." Sherlock shook his head, a slight smile tugging at his lips. John sighed, realizing that it wasn't worth it to pursue the subject. With resignation he devoted himself to examining the photographs. Five minutes later, he was still examining them and no closer to the enlightenment Sherlock had implied.

"I don't get it, Sherlock, what am I looking for?" He said finally, putting down the papers, at almost the same instance as Molly Hooper came into the room pushing a tray of specimen tubes, bags, and various other paraphernalia of the forensic art.

"Ooh, John, I don't think I saw you come in." She sputtered and smiled in her usual way, and John smiled back at her.

"You looked busy, so I came on back to the lab."

"Molly." Sherlock spoke peremptorily, cutting off the small talk. "What did your father give you last year for a Christmas present?"

"What...?" She asked, giving Sherlock a truly shocked look, her hand flying to her throat.

"It was a necklace wasn't it?" He asked, ignoring her reaction. "Do you have it on now?"

Molly's expression was guarded, but she nodded.

"It was his last Christmas, I wear it always." She pulled a simple chain with a ceramic oval painted in pretty, pastel flowers, out from under her collar.

"May I see it?" Sherlock held out his hand, which she regarded uncertainly for a few moments before reaching up and undoing the clasp of the chain.

"Sentiment is a strange thing don't you think." He remarked, holding up the ornament by its chain for John to observe. John made a wry face and reached up to stop it twirling, so he could look at it.

"Enough with the tease, Sherlock, what am I looking at?"

"Sentiment John."

With a quick movement, Sherlock flipped the pendant over to show the back where a short message was inscribed with gold paint.

"To my little Simbelmyne, love dad." John read, stumbling over the unfamiliar word. He glanced a question at Molly, who was fiddling with a pair of specimen bags.

"It's a flower that blooms where dead men rest." She smiled and shrugged.

"Dad was a big Tolkien fan. He thought it was a good joke."

"This explains a lot of your own so-called humor." Sherlock quipped, handing the necklace back to her.

"My point though, is that at least three of these pieces of jewelry have some kind of inscription, and they all are the type of jewelry more prized for their sentimental than real value."

"What do you think that means?" John asked, leafing through the photographs again.

"Too soon to say." Sherlock moved back to the microscope, and carefully tweezed a small amount of fluff that he had scraped out of the parcel envelope onto a slide.

"I'm going to need to see the rest of the jewelry though. The photographs are completely insufficient."

"It looks like we'll have to call Bristol then, since their department has been handling this case. All the files have their letterhead." John observed.

Sherlock nodded and settled himself at the microscope.

"I'm leaving that to you."

John nodded and then frowned.

"Yeah…and what are you going to be doing?"

Sherlock turned away from the microscope long enough to favor John with a Cheshiresque grin, before returning to his study. Molly gave him a sympathetic look.

John sighed.

"Lovely." He rubbed his hands over his face, realizing suddenly how tired he was. A glance at his watch showed after midnight.

"Well there's nothing doing until morning, so I'm off home." No response from Sherlock, but that was typical. Molly Hooper gave him a parting smile.

Finally collapsing into his bed in the still chilly flat, John allowed himself to reflect on the day, and for a moment before sleep closed around him he thought of the young woman, Mary Morstan. His last thought as he drifted off was to wonder whether there might not be some reason she might need to go to Bristol.


	6. Chapter 6

**All right everyone, here's another chapter. It's a bit short, but now that we are getting into the thick of the mystery I want to keep our heroes moving about a lot, which lends to shorter chapters (at least in my opinion).**

**I would really appreciate reviews and constructive criticism, since they tend to keep me motivated to write more. Also, this is my first mystery, so I would like to know whether I am giving too much information away, or if I just have everyone in a state of confusion.**

Chapter 6

"Well, it wouldn't do to have life make things too easy." John muttered as he set his phone down on the table by his computer. From behind him the sound of tapping keys paused for a moment.

"Bristol doesn't have the Jewelry anymore." Sherlock made it more of a statement than a question. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his computer perched precariously atop them. What hour Sherlock had got back from St Barts, John didn't know, but he had the self satisfied air about him that said he'd had a profitable night. John still felt like a couple more hours of sleep were in order, but successive rackets of Sherlock playing the violin and rummaging through the flat, had convinced him that rest was impossible.

The whistle of the kettle roused him again from a half-doze and he rose, yawning, to head for the kitchen.

"Find anything new about our stalkers then?" John went ahead and asked since Sherlock wasn't volunteering the information. He sniffed the tea canister suspiciously, but detected nothing untoward. With no reply from Sherlock, he shrugged and turned his mind to breakfast.

"Toast is just the thing," He muttered opening cupboards to reveal an empty bread wrapper.

"Damn." He rummaged with increasing frustration through the kitchen.

"Why do we never have any food here?" John shook an empty milk carton in disgust before tossing it in the bin.

"Have you ever heard of the Four Sister's, John?" Sherlock's voice interrupted John's calculations as he tried to determine the age of a carton of curried chicken.

"Er…the four sisters." He cast his mind back to a vague memory. "That's corn, beans, squash, and tomato… right?" They made a very tasty casserole if he was remembering right from his one experience of potluck, as his American friend's had called it, back in Kandahar.

Sherlock suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway, shaking his head.

"That's the three sisters, and tomato doesn't come into it." He set his laptop down on the table

"The Four Sisters are a gang of international thieves. They're best known for crashing an Indian wedding in France, and making off with more than half a million in gold and jewels from the bridal party."

John pitched the curried chicken into the bin, and then leaned in to take a closer look at the computer. He let out a low whistle.

"Well, they have nerve, I'll say that." He kept reading. "Says that three women, or at least three people wearing women's clothing locked the bride and groom into a room right before the main wedding ceremony and stripped them both down to their underwear." John shook his head. "That is a ridiculous amount of jewelry."

"That's not the point John. Look further down to where it talks about the groom." Sherlock ordered. John scrolled down.

"Ah, here." He stopped and read. "No one injured except the groom who had some strange cuts that he declined to explain except to say that the thieves were responsible." John squinted at a picture on the screen that showed a middle aged Indian man's face being treated by a medic.

"Look closely at those cuts." Sherlock instructed in a low voice. John frowned.

"Well, there's mostly a hand in the way." He complained to Sherlock, pointing out the green gloved medic's hand. Still he could see a little of the cuts, which looked like a line of X's running along the man's left cheek bone, or maybe they were T's, he frowned at the intruding hand.

"Isn't there a better picture?"

"Not yet." Sherlock answered. "I've got people working on it."

John straightened and looked at his friend.

"What do you think this has to do with our case?"

"Everything." Sherlock smiled and whirled back into the main room, only to return a moment later, and thrust a slip of paper into John's face. John took it.

"One of the stalker's notes?" Surprised, he scanned the page till his eyes reached the bottom corner, and his eyes widened.

"The marks are the same." He glanced from the paper to the computer screen and then back to Sherlock. Four small marks that were either sideways leaning T's or misshapen X's were carefully printed on the lower right hand corner of the note.

"So this gang is actually the stalker, or whatever…but why are they sending this stuff to Mary Morstan?" John trailed off, a feeling of bewilderment enveloping him.

"That's not even the fun part John." Sherlock looked positively gleeful, and with a flourish he brandished the other five photocopied notes.

"The really interesting question is why someone doesn't want anyone to know who is sending Mary Morstan these parcels." John took the papers and spread them out on the table. Looking between them and the latest letter he let out an involuntary whistle.

All five photocopies were perfectly clear except for the bottom right corner, where the copy was smudged and dark.

"Why?" John shook his head, trying to grasp a thread of reason in the whole mess their case had become. "It's tampering with evidence and it doesn't make any sense."

"I wouldn't say that." Sherlock said smiling and moving to grab his coat and scarf. "Most of the clues are lining up nicely, but we need to find out what the jewelry Morstan has been getting means. That will be your job." He added, and then cut off John's question.

"I need you to get a complete description of each item from her, and especially find out if there were any personalized details; initials, messages, that sort of thing."

John nodded,

"Right, fine. And what are you going to be doing?"

Sherlock didn't seem to notice the question.

"I must admit that overall this case hasn't been nearly as dull as I originally suspected it would be." He remarked thoughtfully before heading downstairs, leaving John to roll his eyes at an empty flat. John took stock of the situation and the bare kitchen, and considered his options. Then he picked up his phone and dialed a number.

"Hello, Mary….Yeah it's John Watson, sorry for calling so early." He smiled and rubbed absently at the crease between his eyebrows.

"I wonder if you might be free for breakfast?"


End file.
